


More Than the Sum of Her Parts

by Abbie



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Felicity backstory, Gen, Mild Angst, egregious canon oversight addressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:57:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abbie/pseuds/Abbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An off-hand comment sparks an overdue confrontation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than the Sum of Her Parts

**Author's Note:**

> This was a five sentence fic that got well out of hand. First sentence prompt by ohemgeeitscoley.

"I do everything for you, and you still know nothing about me."

Oliver stopped and stared at Felicity, who sat behind her bank of monitors, eyes on something on the desk, a small smile on her face; her tone had been teasing, but he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining the bitter edge in her voice—couldn’t deny the joke was  _true_. Except… except it  _wasn’t_  true—was it? “I know plenty about you.”

She looked up at him, clearly surprised he was actually pursuing this by the lift of her brows. “Oh, really. Wow me with your knowledge of Smoak Trivia, then.”

Oliver stared at her, eyes searching her face, wrestling with a desperate need to  _prove_  he knew this woman, that he wasn’t some selfish, unfeeling asshole who demanded  _everything_  of her and gave  _nothing_  back. As he combed his memories, her amused smile began to slip, and a wall seemed to go up in her eyes, but not before he saw a flash of hurt.

"You’re allergic to peanuts," he blurted; she blinked. "You think kangaroos are creepy, you hate mysteries, you love bright colors and red wine. You graduated MIT summa cum laude in three and a half years and you were the youngest IT specialist ever recruited by QC. You’re not a natural blonde. You’re Jewish, but you don’t strictly observe."

Felicity sat back in her chair, posture going straight and rigid, and Oliver could  _see_  the distance she was unrolling between them. “It was a joke, Oliver. Because you forgot I don’t eat pickles on my cheeseburger again. It wasn’t an accusation.”

Oliver felt a sudden rise of irritation flush through him; it had  _felt_  like an accusation—worse, it felt like it hit its mark. He strode around the desk, turning her chair and bracing himself on both arms, bending so they were eyelevel and inches apart. “Your middle name is Megan. You’re 25 years old, 26 in four months. Your father died of cancer when you were only four, and your mother in a car accident when you were eleven. You have no siblings, and you were raised by your great aunt, who had no children. She died five years ago at age 72. In her sleep. Your mother’s insurance policy and inheritances from your father and great aunt paid off your student loans.”

He watched her eyebrows crash together, flags of color rising high in her cheeks. “Wow, congratulations, you memorized the background check you ran on me, that’s impressive.” She nibbled on the inside of her lip, then glared into his eyes. “I was  _joking_ , Oliver. It was a joke. You know why it was a joke? Because it’s  _true_  and it’s  _laughable_ , and it  _isn’t going to change_. So you can stand here with your factoids and bullet points like they mean a goddamn thing, but they don’t  _change_  anything, and I have better things to do.”

She started to stand, ignoring his presence in her space—to stand and force him back with her body, like she’d done once before and walked away from him—but he bared his teeth, smacking his hands down on the chair arms with a  _bang_  and leaning forward to crowd her back into her seat. She pressed back against the round ergonomic cushions, eyes wide and mouth a flat, angry line. A flare of regret and shame burned in his chest, but he pushed it aside. This was important; he couldn’t just let it go.

"You prefer skirts and dresses to pants, and you like high heels, but you feel better in flats. You have the widest variety of vivid lipsticks I have  _ever_  seen on a single mouth, and you switch every two weeks between a shampoo that smells like mint and another one that smells like oranges and spice. You’re incredibly self confident about your skills, but not about your value to other people. You know you’re pretty, but you think no one notices, or cares. You’re wrong.” He took a deep breath, eyes boring into hers, his face set in dead serious lines. “You love Chinese food and Italian, but you’re not a fan of Vietnamese. You speak French. You’ve been teaching yourself Spanish and Russian for the last six months, and you don’t think anyone’s noticed yet.

"You run almost every day, and you can’t help dancing a little whenever there’s music. You don’t get enough sleep, and you have nightmares." His voice hushed, eyes dropped. "Nightmares that are my fault."

He heard her intake of breath, but couldn’t let her comfort him, assuage his guilt; not now. Dragging his eyes back to hers, he begged her silently to understand him. “I know you, Felicity. I rely on you, more than I should, I take you for granted and I’m a far worse friend than you deserve. You are my partner, my friend, and one of the pillars in my life. I know you.”

She swallowed thickly, her expression falling to lines of sadness—and worse, disappointment. Her hand came up, fingers just brushing his cheek before dropping. “You think you do. You’ve memorized facts and preferences, and you’ve observed details, and you think you know me.” She began to rise again, slowly, and this time he let her, only barely stepping back, not quite able to give her the space she asked for. “Oliver, you don’t  _know_  me. And until you realize why, you can’t even pretend you want to. So don’t.”

And refusing to take only what he gave her, she slid sideways, her clothes catching against his, her body heat radiating against him—and walked away.


End file.
